Happiness is at the Bottom of an Endless Bottle
by AnotherSongAnotherMile
Summary: It's a game. Her throwing herself at you like this. It's a way for her to get what she wants without having to give anything back. Haymitch/Katniss and Peeta/Katniss. One-shot.


_Happiness is at the Bottom of an Endless Bottle_

She comes to you that night. You know what she wants even though she hasn't said it yet. You'd watched the mandatory message from the Capitol that night in your living room, and even though you were in a drunken stupor at the time, the message was clear—at least one of District 12's tributes will be dead in a matter of months. You let her partake in some of your white alcohol before she decides that the boy has to come out of this alive. He deserves it more than either of you do, anyways. You'd take his place if he'd let you. Go into those games and die a noble death for them right now as long as you didn't have to live the rest of your life worrying about those stupid kids that are your neighbors and the way trouble always seems to follow them. All the liquor in the world isn't worth this headache.

You do tell her that you've already made the same promise to Peeta, but you've never really been known as a man of your word. Your integrity faltered years ago.

The boy's too good to give up his life for either of you. Seems like a crime to let him die.

You discover that night that Katniss is not a graceful drunk, not the slightest. It's when she makes her way to leave, bottle of liquor still in hand, that you finally tell her that she's had more than enough. Her mother will be at your house first thing the next morning with murder in her eyes if you send her oldest home with alcohol poisoning. But she pulls the bottle away quickly, hugging it towards her chest as you go to swipe it, its contents sloshing down the front of her shirt in the process.

You sigh as you finally tug the bottle free of her death grip before setting it down and helping her pull her soaked shirt up and over her head. It's got to be below freezing right now, and you know too well from personal experience that alcohol poisoning _and _hypothermia don't mix well.

She follows you to the corner of the first floor bedroom where you dig through a soiled hamper full of every shirt you own. Hazelle hasn't been there in over a week, and your closet's empty. You smell each one you pull out of the basket until you find one that doesn't make you instantly want to bolt. You're practically knocked from your feet when you turn back around and Katniss' lips are crashing forcefully and sloppily down onto your own.

So you may not be completely sober right now—not even mildly sober—but you have the quick reflexes to push the girl at arms length before asking what the fuck's gotten into her. Her eyes are clouded over as she rocks unsteadily on her feet before you. You can't deal with the drunken bullshit tonight. Give it out, maybe, but you can barely handle this girl when she's alert and sober. Talking sense into her in this state is downright impossible.

You make for the telephone Effie had reinstalled in your kitchen. You'll call the boy. He can take her away and talk some sense into her. Maybe cuddle her into submission. She's obviously in dire need of comforting now, and your just about as lovable as a dead cactus.

"I'll have _him_ take you home," you tell her. The boy's just picked up the phone when Katniss' finger pushes down on the switchhook.

"Don't... I can't... Not now," she pleads. "He wants to _die_ for me, Haymitch. He loves me so goddamn much that he's willing to volunteer to give his _life _for me_. _I can't..." She stumbles back as she buries her face into her hands. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"You do what any other girl in their right mind would do," you reply gruffly. "Love him with all you've got until he's dead and gone."

"_Two _of us are coming home. If you get drawn, he's going to take your place and you know that. If anyone deserves a shot at life, it's the one person who hasn't spent that past year fucking up everyone else's."

As trashed as she is she seems to have thought this through. And she has a point. You both know that she does.

She's standing there, desperately staring at you and wearing only a tiny red bra that does little to conceal her small but subtle breasts. You know that you shouldn't be looking at them, but you have a pulse and she isn't wearing a shirt and you've already turned the television off so there's nothing left to look at.

"I must be a pretty desirable person," you finally say to her, breaking the eerie silence. "To choose me over the two young bucks vying for your affection. They say that the potbelly is the new six pack."

You expect her to scowl at you, to storm out of the house with a huff. Instead she closes the distance between the two of you and places her hands on your shoulders, which is probably the most intimate act that has ever taken place between you and anyone else over the past quarter century. Then she says the words that don't surprise you. "You won't say that you love me, and you won't expect me to feel anything in return."

It's a game. Her throwing herself at you like this. It's a way for her to get what she wants without having to give anything back. She's taking the easy road of angry sex without the burden of love and romance getting in the way. You're no stranger to that road, but all the Capitol hookers in the world couldn't compare to this girl as she stares up at you through long, thick lashes while pressing her breasts up against the front of your shirt just enough to make her cleavage spill over its tiny confinement.

You inhale a deep breath before the feeling of her small, warm, and toned body against your own soft, cold, and shapeless one inhibits your self-control and your lips come crashing into one another with such force that you're certain you'll both be left with a bruise. Her mouth feels so small on yours, but maybe it's because she's still a kid. _A kid. _She's 17, your disgusting, and you're pretty certain that taking this girl's virginity is about the least honorable thing you could ever do, even more so than mentoring all those innocent kids to their certain deaths.

But for now you just don't fucking care. It's been seven years since your last conquest, who charged you a month's pay for an hour of pleasure between those silken sheets of a Capitol hotel. Even then there was little pleasure in it, what with all of those hideous wigs that they wear and the way that they paint animal patterns on their tight, surgically-altered skin. Katniss is different, because she reminds yourself so much of _your_ girl_. _The only girl you'd ever allowed yourself to love until the Capitol took her out as punishment to you.

Your hands clumsily grasp at the back of her bra, tugging and pulling and muttering secret passwords that will maybe open the damn thing so you can get it out of the way. _Eureka_! So it had to be torn off. Katniss gasps at your resourcefulness, or maybe because you'd just ripped her undergarments to shreds, but either way she is free of her confinements, moaning as your large, sweaty palms find her small breasts while your chapped lips pressed back against her own.

"Just can't wait, can you Sweetheart?" you tease her as your fingertips pinch her erect nipple, causing her shudder against you. She's pinned between you and that disgusting counter top where you store all your empty booze bottles, her fingers working the buckle of your belt as your dick swells with impatience. Your trousers pool around your ankles as her small hand finds its way beneath the waistband of your shorts and you're melting... hardening as her hand makes small, inexperienced strokes over your cock. Hell, if you didn't want this so badly maybe you would've taken more notice in the fact that she doesn't even know what she's doing, but the mere feeling of her touching you is already sending you over the edge. You have to grasp her arm and stop her from her ministrations before you release into her hand and embarrass you both.

You're pretty sure you've never wanted anything as bad as you do right now, but when those innocent gray eyes meet yours, your sex drive falters. This girl, who you were so certain would die in the last Games, who eventually _will_ die in the next ones, looks up at you with the saddest eyes you'd ever seen. She's going back into the arena to sacrifice herself for a boy who she's not even sure that she loves, and there's not a goddamn thing you can do about it. It's either one of them or both, and Katniss always gets what she wants. She's not coming home from the Quarter Quell and you know it.

Before you can get too caught up in how what you're doing with her is completely wrong, you quickly flip her around to face the counter, pinning her hands down on the level surface before her. You can't look into her eyes and do this.

You slip her pants down, your hand creeping between her legs to tease her. She quivers at the slightest contact—evident of how _pure _and innocent she is. She's hot and wet to your touch and as your index finger enters her you can only imagine how she will feel around _you._ Her hands grip the chipped Formica of your counter top, letting out little moans and pants as your fingers work in a steady rhythm against her.

She draws out a husky moan as she stammers your name. "H-Haymitch..."

You don't need anymore enticement, pulling down your shorts and leaning her forward as you enter her smoothly from behind. Her body tenses as you push yourself entirely into her, causing her to emit a whimper of pain. For that split second when you realize that you are hurting her you regret everything, begin to pull out even, until she whispers your name.

"Haymitch..._please_."

Your at battle with your conscience as you freeze inside of her. There's no doubt that you'll both regret this in the morning. But in this moment both of your futures appear to be _crap_ and this is the one thing that might make right now a little better. She pleads with you again to start moving before you begin to thrust slowly inside of her, your hand gliding up her ribcage before cupping a breast. Your lips find the curve of her neck when your hips begin to jut into hers a little more forcefully. She's warm and wet and tight and everything that sex _should _be. It's been much too long and you know you won't last, so your hand reaches around to tease the nub at the top of her slit, bringing her to climax more quickly. You spill inside of her just as a scream reaches her lips and you shake with the intensity of the pending orgasm before pulling out of her and slumping to the floor with your bottle of liquor in hand.

You sit there, trousers still tangled around your feet and finish off the bottle as you watch her clumsily redress herself before she stumbles out the door without saying a word.

* * *

You think about her for the next couple of weeks when you don't seeher. Peeta even comes by to mention that Katniss is acting weird, and you deal with the guilt that comes with that realization by popping open another bottle of Capitol-shipped whiskey.

She does stop by a few days after that, standing awkwardly in the doorway of your kitchen as you sit slumped over the table with a hangover. You're looking at her sideways from where your arms pillow your aching head and she looks back at you uncertainly.

"What do you want?" you finally ask her. You realize how harshly it came out but why the hell won't she just _talk?_

She leaves right away without saying a word.

* * *

It's early in the morning when you're rudely awakened by someone stomping into your house. _Hell, _maybe it's sometime after dusk. You'd stopped keeping track of time years ago. You barely register the angry sound of a pair of boots approaching you until you're being jerked up off the table by a strong pair of hands. You barely have time to reach for your knife before it's flipped from your grasp. An angry pair of blue eyes meet yours, and for once Peeta Mellark looks like he wants to kill someone.

Okay, so he _has_ killed people. But for the very first time he has the look in his eye like he could do it without apprehension.

"She was drunk!" He's roaring so loudly that you're now more alert than you have been in weeks. "You had no right!" He lets go of your collar now that you're sitting up only to punch you roughly in the face, managing to knock you out so that you're passed out on your table top again.

* * *

When you wake up he's pacing the room, pulling his hands through his hair. It's daylight now, which means that you've been unconscious for either several minutes or several hours. Guess you'll never know. When the boy realizes that you've come to he cuts the distance between the two of you before his fist comes down hard on the table in front of you. "You have no idea what you did to her. She is half your age, Haymitch. You are her _mentor. _You're supposed to be watching out for her, not defiling her!"

You're sorely rubbing your temples and hoping that the persistent ringing in your ears ends soon as the boy rants on. There's nothing much to say to the kid since he's right about everything. Katniss is a young and innocent girl and taking advantage of her was sick. Of course, he plays down Katniss' part in all of this, not that you wanna go into the details of how she'd seduced you.

"-she's scared and she has no idea what to do about it, and now she has to go into the Games in this condition."

The last bit of his outburst just catches your attention. "Condition? What the hell's wrong with her?"

Peeta's eyes darken as he bends down to your level, looking you straight in the eye. "She's _pregnant_."

Your stomach churns as hot bile rises in your throat and you're pretty sure it's not due to the binge drinking or the concussion that you've just been given.

It doesn't surprise you much when the boy says he's going to take responsibility for your mistake. Peeta is so much damn better than the both of you.

* * *

Months after Plutarch had contacted you and the plan started to take form, you just barely manage to break them both out of that arena alive. The Capitol was a mere second away from capturing Peeta when you'd pulled him up into the hovercraft. Probably wouldn't have chanced it if it weren't for your baby growing in Katniss' womb.

It's hard wandering the halls of Thirteen watching them gush over the baby who has your eyes. No one else knows, of course. You know that it's for the best, but there's still a piercing pain every time you witness Peeta referring to your kid as his son. He's happy, the tot's happy, and s_he _seems happy, and you think it best to just stay the hell out of their way.

Their life is good now and your happiness doesn't much matter here. You're used to the feeling.


End file.
